


Nosferateu

by Gryphonrhi



Series: Aidan-verse 2: The Line War [2]
Category: Forever Knight, Highlander: The Series
Genre: Crossover, Established Relationship, M/M, Wordcount: 10.000-30.000, discussion of noncon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-08
Updated: 2011-12-08
Packaged: 2017-10-27 02:02:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,488
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/290445
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gryphonrhi/pseuds/Gryphonrhi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Now open!  Home of good jazz, fine wine, intriguing liqueurs, and unique blood types.  AKA, Duncan, Methos, and an opinionated vampire or two....</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nosferateu

**Author's Note:**

> I don't usually bother saying this, but I feel I have to on this one.  Not all opinions expressed within this story are those of the writer, all right?  A couple of the characters got downright pushy with their attitudes, and you'll have to read the notes at the end to see what I refuse to be blamed for.

The two men walked through the autumn night at an easy pace, not rushed but not dawdling either.  The streetlamps illuminated dark hair, longer on the taller man, cut short on his companion.  Neither one stood less than six feet; both wore long coats and jeans.  As they strolled on toward their destination, they talked casually, sometimes in French, sometimes in English, whichever better suited the discussion or offered more leeway for puns.

"So, Joe called and mentioned that Nosferateu was opening up again under new management.  The Watchers are going half-mad trying to find out who bought it."  Methos shrugged, narrow shoulders hunched slightly from the position of his hands in his pockets, his grad student image all too convincing.  He glanced up at his darker-skinned companion and new lover, malicious humor sparking in hazel eyes.  "Besides, I thought it would be entertaining to see if the Parisian women have come up with any new insults lately."

Duncan glanced over at him, one eyebrow raised as he tried to follow the corner in the conversational path.  "So who are they going to be insulting?  You?  Me?  Or this band you wanted me to come listen to?"

"Oh, me, MacLeod, assuredly."  Methos shifted his pace just enough; suddenly he and Duncan strode hip to hip, and the oldest immortal wrapped an arm around the other man's waist.

Duncan leaned into the caress, brown eyes closing for a moment, letting his friend's arm guide him.  His own arm went around the other immortal's shoulders as he opened his eyes again to watch where he was going.  "So why are they going to insult you?"

Methos shrugged and then chuckled softly.  "Because we're going to a night club and knowing you, you're going to dance with any female who has a good sense of rhythm while I sit back and enjoy the music and the beer....  But I'm the one who's going to take you home and back to bed.  They'll hate me for it."

"That they will.  But I'll love you for it."  Strong fingers caressed Methos' shoulder through the layers of fabric, and Duncan slowed, pulling the other man in for a long, heated kiss.

Methos returned it with interest, hips pressed against Duncan's as they let the world slow to a halt around themselves for a moment.  After waiting so long for this, he had trouble believing it wasn't a dream, that he wouldn't wake soon.  Darius had told him about Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod decades ago, convinced that he'd found someone who could win the Prize that actually wouldn't abuse it.  Three years ago, Methos had had the chance to meet this extraordinary young immortal... and had fallen thoroughly in love.

From access to Watcher chronicles, he'd suspected that MacLeod had never taken a male lover—or if he had, it had been a damned short relationship.  So Methos had settled for friendship, hoping that sometime in the next century or so, Duncan would be willing to consider the idea.  Instead, thanks to inspired meddling by a mutual friend, the Highlander had made the first move.  They had spent most of the last three days together and/or in bed.

This was the first time either immortal had left the barge in two days, and if this kiss didn't slow down, they were never going to make it to the nightclub.  Reluctantly, Methos pulled back, gently breaking the kiss.  "Think of that as a promissory note for later.  But I did say we'd go look into this for Joe."

Duncan sighed, pulling his attention away from that strong, sweet mouth and back to what they were supposed to be doing.  "I can't imagine what you were thinking."

Methos shrugged as they resumed their stroll.  "That some fresh air and a change of scenery would be fun.  And that both of us owe Joe several favors, not least for the comfort of knowing he has people keeping an eye on Aidan for us."

Duncan nodded, suddenly thoughtful.  "What do we do when she comes to Paris next month?"

His lover slowed, surprised until he began to understand where the Scot's concerns might lie.  "What do you want to do?  You said you two had been lovers off and on that last month before you came to Paris.  Did you think I'd object if you wanted to continue?"

"I wasn't sure.  Aidan loves me, aye, but she'd give you her head.  I should be asking you that question.  What do you want?"   Discomfort warred with love and worry across Duncan's face.  If he hadn't been so lovely to watch, Methos would have shaken him.

"You sound like you think I'm going to choose between you.  Unless you insist, that isn't going to happen."  He studied Duncan intently, then sighed.  "Did it ever occur to you that I love you both?  MacLeod, the woman had three husbands and two wives all at once.  Two lovers is nothing to her.  She can and does love us both at once, and being Edana she has love left over."

"I know she does, and part of me believes it, but...."  Duncan sighed and abandoned it, unable to come out with the words to express his nebulous worries.

“Are you worried that I don’t love you both?”

“No!  It’s not that, Methos.  I don’t doubt you, love.”

“Are you worried that Edana can’t love both of us?”

“No, it’s not that either!”

“What, then?  You don’t think you have enough love for both of us?”  Narrowed hazel eyes watched for the reaction and smiled to see the instant rejection of that idea.

“Yes, I love both of you, damn it!”  Duncan looked indignant and just a bit relieved that this was coming into the open at last.

"Do you want all three of us to be together?"  Methos met his eyes and waited for the answer.

"Aye, I do."  That answer was certain and both of them smiled.

"Then we'll manage it.  This doesn't have to be an 'either/or' situation, Highlander.  Come on, let's go enjoy the jazz.  Tomorrow, though, shall we see about writing her a letter from both of us?"

Duncan shivered slightly at the tone of voice.  The caressing intonation of 'letter' told him that Aidan sent love notes to both of them, but he had to ask.  "She wrote you, too?"

"Oh, yes.  My Gods, that woman is illegal without ever descending to profanity.  She could give the Pope a raging hard-on with two sentences," Methos purred.  The older immortal knew damn well their mutual lover had written Mac and was well able to guess the effects her billet-doux had produced.

"Aye, she could."  After another few minutes of walking, Duncan mused, "You know, she once said she habitually wore out three men a night.  When she hits town, shall we see if we can exhaust her instead?"

"Without telling her?  Absolutely.  Then I'll put you to sleep."  The older immortal laughed at Duncan's squawk of protest.

"You?  What makes you think you'll do it?"

"I usually stay awake longer; I'm the night owl.  Besides, Highlander, your stamina needs work."  Methos chuckled again, then said, "And we're here."

Duncan muttered, "My stamina is fine, and I'll prove it later."  Both of them stopped to consider the corner club.  A neon sign over the door read 'Nosferateu,' just as it had the last time MacLeod had been here hunting for Kalas.  That evil immortal had lost his head to Duncan's sword, gone and unlamented, but not before he had killed too many good people, including three Watchers and the immortal, Hugh FitzCairn.  For a brief moment, Duncan could almost hear Fitz whistling cheerily, nearly smell tobacco smoke drifting past on the breeze.

Methos cocked his head.  "You all right?"

"Yeah, just felt FitzCairn for a moment.  He could have been standing just out of sight, with that damn pipe of his."  Duncan shook his head, throwing it off, a faint smile curving his mouth at the memory of his friend.

"I never met him, but I knew easily a dozen immortals who had and loved him dearly.  I'm sorry, Duncan."

"No need.  I have his quickening, it's... a comfort.  Sometimes I just have to think of him and I can almost hear him laughing.  He's always here, I think.  I know that sounds mad...."

Methos stopped him.  "No, it doesn't.  Sometimes it happens.  It was a favorite argument between Darius and Aidan.  She would insist that an immortal's soul can stay, traveling with the quickening to accompany whoever held it.  She thought that whenever the host died the soul had the option of moving on to rebirth or remaining.  Darius maintained the souls couldn't stay, that they had to move on when the initial quickening was done.  They loved arguing that one late into the night, drinking that plant poison he called tea, and using it as a jumping point to argue theology and thealogy."

Having been around for some of Aidan's discussions on religion, the Gods, and ethics, Duncan couldn't help chuckling.  "Oh, I bet they did.  So, do we go in or stand out here all night?"

"Well, the sooner we go in, the sooner we can go home...."  Methos leaned against the street lamp, a thoughtful expression on his face, but the pose and his hands hooked into his pockets drew Duncan's eyes straight to his crotch.  When he licked his lips, the Scot leaned in against him, not quite touching, then swayed back.

"Come on, Adam, let's go and listen to the band.  Then we'll go home."

From the use of his current identity Methos knew that he had aroused and frustrated Duncan.  Goal accomplished, he inclined his head graciously and motioned Duncan forward.  "After you."

Both of them stopped just inside the door, as much to let their eyes adjust to the change in lighting as to pay the cover charge.  Methos paid for both of them, waving a casual hand at Duncan when he started to protest.  "I've been eating your groceries, MacLeod, don't worry about it."

The band started their next song at that point and both men paid respectful attention to the intricate piano work as they moved farther into the club, searching out a table.  Fortunately, the place was busy but not yet standing room only.  Methos had almost given up on finding a place when Duncan said, "Ah, there's Maurice... and there're two chairs at his table."

Gold-green eyes narrowed as Methos tensed.  Something about the man at the table with Maurice was very familiar, but he didn't give off the buzz of immortal presence.  The oldest immortal instinctively checked for his sword-hilt as they slowly worked their way through the crowd.  Maurice caught the purposeful movement from the corner of his eye and looked up, beaming as soon as he recognized his nearest neighbor.  "MacLeod, how are you, _mon ami_?"

"Fine, Maurice, and you?"  Duncan sat down at the chair Maurice indicated, already studying the other man at the table with great interest.  His seated position made judging height difficult, but he was probably shorter than Duncan or Methos, with close-cropped silver hair, intense grey eyes, and a feeling of contained power and menace which usually only the older immortals could radiate.  At the moment he had one hand against his cheek, thumb under the jaw, index finger extended against his cheek, and the bottom fingers curling down against the corner of his mouth.  It looked as though he were trying not to smile at something Maurice had been saying.  Then his glance lighted on Methos and something in the eyes changed, becoming both warmer and more detached.

Duncan felt his lover tense slightly and saw that Methos' face had taken on that half-amused expression that he used to mask his true feelings.

Maurice, meanwhile, continued to make introductions.  "Oh, I'm well, MacLeod.  Duncan MacLeod, Adam Pierson, this is Lucien LaCroix, the silent partner in this wonderful place.  I was just congratulating him on this excellent band and trying to get a manager's name so that they will play my nightclub next.  Lucien, this is Duncan MacLeod, a good friend and neighbor of mine, and Adam Pierson, a researcher and scholar."

LaCroix smiled at Adam and nodded.  "Yes, we've met.  M. MacLeod, a pleasure, I'm sure.  But I thought you lived on a boat, Maurice?"

Adam nodded back to him.  "So does MacLeod.  It's been a while, Lucien.  I hadn't thought you had business interests in France.  Are you moving over here, then?"

Duncan reached across the table to shake hands with LaCroix and part of his mind noted with surprise just how strong the other man's grip was.  He could almost feel the restraint being used, and the grey eyes that met his seemed to control their intensity somehow.  Something very odd was going on here.  In the brief moments it took to trade the handshake, the Highlander felt Methos intent at his side, wary as a cat expecting a dog.

LaCroix, meanwhile, turned his attention back to the oldest immortal and replied, "Merely assisting my daughter in a purchase.  My interests are on the other side of the sea these nights.  However, one should support promising offspring, wouldn't you agree?  Surely you remember Janette?"

Methos smiled slightly, a wry twist of his mouth that might have been misinterpreted by people who knew him less well.  "No, I never had the pleasure of meeting any of your children.  But I know what you mean.  I'm sorry, did we interrupt?"

Maurice poured wine for both immortals, having gotten extra glasses from the server.  "No, no, it was only business.  What is that to interrupt the reunion of old friends?"

Duncan sipped at his wine, watching to see where the problem was.   As he adjusted his coat over the chair, he saw LaCroix studying him with an amused look as if he knew about the difficulties of arranging the concealed sword without being obvious.  "And you, M. MacLeod—or may I call you Duncan?"  At the nod, LaCroix went on, "I rather wonder if we don't have more friends in common than just Adam."

Duncan deliberately kept a cheerful tone as he replied, "It's a small world these days; I wouldn't be surprised.  I think Adam knows everyone."

"So he does, I would agree."  The white-haired man traded an ironic glance with Methos which Duncan didn't understand, then turned to Maurice.  "I will be sure and have M. DeVille come see you, sir, about a contract for your club.  I believe my daughter signed him on for a month as the house band, but after that he will be free."

"Ah, thank you, Lucien.  If you will be in Paris for long, I must insist you allow me to treat you and Janette to a dinner at my restaurant.  The bouillabaisse!"  Maurice kissed his fingertips, and Duncan chimed in to agree.

"It is that good.  You ought to try it."

"I will not take no for an answer.  Sometime this week, you must come by and I shall personally see to it, yes?"  Maurice waited expectantly for an answer.

"If possible.  I have certain obligations in Canada you understand."

"Oh, of course, of course.  So, how do you find the jazz bands in the United States and Canada?  Do they compare to Paris?"  For the next hour, all four men discussed music, ranging from jazz to blues to reggae to techno.  Finally, though, Maurice excused himself to allow the other men to catch up on old news.

Methos waited until he was well and truly gone, then calmly asked, “So what are you doing in Paris?”

“As I said, helping my daughter buy a nightclub.  How long has it been, Adam?”  LaCroix sipped from his wine, smiling slightly.

“Rome, I think, that debacle in the 1300s with the schism and the dual Papacy.  It must be easily two centuries since I’ve seen anyone of your kind.”  Methos slouched in his chair, casual and apparently relaxed.

Duncan carefully stayed calm, but he knew full well that the man across the table was not in the Game.  _So if Methos is taking him seriously, what is he?_

“Truly?  I’ve seen several of yours, especially lately.  There was a would-be hunter calling himself Clausewitz who came through one of my establishments quite often.  I understand he lost his head, though.”

Duncan commented, “Only one?  I had thought you said several?”  Taking his cue from Methos, he kept the tone of voice one of passing interest only.

“Oh, I had three women in my night club in... let’s see, early July.  They fought a Challenge in front of the bar.”  LaCroix sipped from his wine glass and deliberately stopped to see which of them would ask.

“It’s so hard to get good help, too.  Did your cleaning crew quit over the broken glass?”  Methos kept the tone light and only mildly interested.

“No, the winner was quite considerate.  She snapped one neck, severed the spinal cord on the other, and carried the corpses to the alley to take their heads.  Quite courteous.  She even paid blood debt for conducting immortal business in my territory.”  LaCroix shrugged and continued, “As I said, excellent manners.  On the other hand, she and I had met before.  Neither of us cared to cross the other over so trivial a matter.”

“Sensible.  I take it the losers had attacked as a team?”  Methos drank some more of his beer.  Part of his mind spun busily trying to decide how to tell the Watchers to stay away from this place, but most of his attention was focused on LaCroix.  The man had been a master vampire 700 years ago.  By now he certainly controlled a city, but instinct told Methos it was not Paris.  The idea that he could be sitting here in someone else’s territory spoke of immense power and resources among the vampires and possibly mortals as well.

“Yes, they did.  A mistake.  Had they fought one on one, the lady would probably have allowed them to draw their swords.  However, _quid pro quo_ , Adam.  Who else have you met of my kind lately?”

“As I said, it’s been, oh, call it 240 years, Lucien.  A fledgling named Fiametta was making a superb living in Venice in the late 1750s as a courtesan.  I think she finally moved on in ’62.  Other than that, I’ve seen a couple of novels that have made me wonder who or what was writing them, but that’s been it.  And you?”

Duncan observed and listened, controlled and intrigued.  This felt like watching a diplomatic function, all careful words and gestures, with meanings more in the silences and the patterns of questions than in actual speech.  LaCroix, meanwhile, listened to the band.  Finally he commented, “You always did have more patience than most, Adam, I had forgotten.  I have not seen others of your kind more recently than July.  On a technicality.”

“A technicality?  Truly?”  Methos sat and thought for a moment, then asked, “So, who identified the pre-immortal for you?  Your old friend?”

LaCroix raised his glass to Methos in a half-mocking salute.  “Indeed.  You are correct on both points.”

“Hmm.  How old is he or she?”

“Twenty-seven, I believe.”

“How did you run into this pre-immortal?  One of your club employees?”  Methos asked, sipping at his wine and enjoying the battle of wits.

“No, a homicide detective.  One of my sons joined the police; this is his partner.”

Methos blinked.  “Interesting indeed.  That will be a formidable pairing and potentially very useful.  Can he use a sword?”

“He gets better by the day,” came the amused reply.  For a second Methos could have sworn the tone was almost proprietary, but there was an odd, smirking edge to it, too.  On the other hand, this was LaCroix....

“Who’s training him, then?”

“In swordwork?  Or the ways of your kind?”  LaCroix found it very entertaining that they had assumed Nicholas' partner was male.  Why dissuade them of their illusion?

A young server came by and gave LaCroix a fresh glass of wine, then took orders from Methos and Duncan for drinks and food.  Methos waited until he was gone, then said, “Both, if you would.  I get the impression it’s at least two different people.”

That drew a smile from LaCroix.  “Very good, Adam.  He was given, shall we say, a crash course in the ways of your kind by my friend.  Quite interesting; I’d never seen that before.  However, coming back from the dead was extremely convincing, even to a skeptical police officer.”

Methos raised an eyebrow.  “She had you there for the talk?  Because of your son?”

LaCroix shrugged.  “Partly.  More to the point, someone had to ensure that the boundaries between our kinds are observed.  Sulwen lives too far away to control this.  I, however, do not.”

That drew a momentary grin from Duncan, who had no trouble believing this man controlled just about anything he wanted.  LaCroix glanced sharply at the Scot, then realized the smile was admiring rather than mocking and nodded acknowledgment of... something to MacLeod.

Methos observed the back and forth between the two of them with some trepidation.  _Intriguing a vampire, MacLeod_ — _not smart.  Definitely time to divert this conversation._   “Your son is his partner, Lucien?”

“My son, yes.  Another of our kind would like a more... intimate relationship, could they both work it out.  A rather impetuous young Spaniard, barely four centuries old.  I will not have the truce broken, however, by one of my kind interfering in your Game.  A hideous name and fate, old friend.  At least I have my children; even when they struggle against me, it is out of personal desire not species’ imperative.  You do not have that much comfort, do you?”

Methos shrugged, a mocking smile hiding his thoughts on the matter, although Duncan flinched slightly.  "We have our students, our line-kin, sometimes children our mortal spouses bring us.  We do what we can, Lucien.  So if your friend... Sulwen?” he waited until LaCroix nodded, then continued, “... gave this young detective the preliminaries, who's training him in the rest?"

"No one yet.  The Sun-child left a list of names and numbers to be contacted if the detective dies."  LaCroix inclined his head slightly to Duncan, sly amusement in his voice.  "Your name, sir, was third on the list.  She implied they were all friends."

Duncan sat up at that, then modified the sudden motion into a reach for his wine.  "Interesting.  I wonder who forgot to mention it to me."

Methos, however, asked, "Sun-child, Lucien?"

LaCroix shrugged.  “It is what the name means, after all, and by my standards she is distressingly fond of such light.  A most interesting list of names and numbers.  On the other hand, I actually believe that she would hunt me down if I misused it.  I do not care to indulge in deliberate foolhardiness.”

“So who’s training this young man in swordwork?” Methos asked, circling back to the point.

“Touché.  I am.  There is, after all, no reason I should not.  I will not be fighting in the Game.”

Duncan blinked, finally completely lost in this discussion.  Sensibly, he threw his mind back to the parts he understood. _A ‘Sun-child’ gave my name to a pre-immortal for training, hmm?  When we get home, I think I'll call Aidan and get the name of....  No.  If I do that, she'll want to know how it went with Methos, and I want to let her wonder for a while.  After some of the pranks that woman has pulled, she deserves to be left hanging on this._

Methos commented, “No, I would think not.  Do you actually care who wins?”

“I have met a few I would not care to see gain the Prize, but I think they are too weak to have much chance.  That idiot poet, Byron, particularly.  A fragile mind overstrained by forcing the profundity.  He struck me as only brilliant in flashes, reflecting back the light gained from other sources, and when he tired of refracting them....”  LaCroix steepled his fingers and sat back, eyes hooded.  “What good the stone which must be set just so to give back the light?  I believe the correct phrase in more modern idiom would be, ‘Does not play well with others.’ ”  He paused for thought, then murmured, “ ‘Runs with sharp objects?’ ”

Methos stifled a sharp noise which could have been a cough or a laugh.  “I see you met him.”

Duncan controlled a wince at the discussion of the man whose head he'd taken so recently and looked into his wine glass for diversion; it was safer than LaCroix's conversation.

“Fairly accurate description, I have to admit, Lucien, but he threw an impressive party.”  Methos broke off as the server came back with soup and bread, then continued, "He did have a tendency to use things up looking for inspiration, though."  He kept his voice carefully casual, laced with light irony.

"And people, Adam.  But I have always longed to meet him and discuss one or two of his works with him....  Or is that still possible?"  LaCroix smiled, a particularly nasty expression somehow which made Duncan's gaze sharpen as he reevaluated the other man's potential as a threat.

"What, over that damnable poem of his, 'The Giaour?'  Lucien, if you have to go after someone for the vampire craze, make it that woman writer in New Orleans, whatever her name is."

"Anne Rice."  The distaste in LaCroix's voice made it seem as if he had just eaten something that should have been turned into a lab experiment.  "Yes, I had considered it.  Strongly.  I haven't seen overwritten prose so purple since Dickens received his fees by the installment....  Her empathic spectrum runs the gamut of  two colors:  gloating and misery.  While occasionally a first novel is good, to give her some faint credit, she ought to be prohibited from writing sequels.  I will admit, with great and perpetual surprise, to enjoying two of her novels which I read by accident; they had been written under a nom de plume."

Duncan sighed and resigned himself to the inevitable harassment from Methos.  "Sorry, who is this woman?  And what books?"

LaCroix regarded him with a look which bordered on favorable.  "Someone who hasn't read her overblown ravings?  My congratulations, sir, on such discerning tastes.  The woman writes lushly over-detailed novels, usually involving the supernatural and almost always revolving around whining or otherwise miserable people.  Her recent novels are largely responsible for the recurrent teenage craze for pallor, dark clothes, and delusions of vampirism.  Poseurs, the lot of them."

"Duncan, I know you never listen to anything out of this century, but I did think you read some of it," Methos commented in exasperation.

"What, I should read _Gone With the Wind_?  I remember those days, Adam, and she got it all wrong.  Besides, I like Big Band and jazz.  I just don't think that stuff coming out of Seattle is music, much less good!"

"MacLeod, do you listen to anything from this decade?" came the irritated question.

That got a wide grin and the reply, "Other than the Three Tenors?"  Methos sputtered and Duncan went on, "As a matter of fact, let's see, there was some Canadian artist named Sarah MacLachlan?"  He raised an eyebrow as Methos flushed, then kept on, "And let me see, Anuna and Rusted Root came out this year, Clannad a couple years ago, and the soundtrack to _Last of the Mohicans_ was what, '94?  When's the last time you looked through my CDs instead of Edana's?"

"Last week, Mac.  Celtic and soundtracks to historical or literary movies.  Gods, the only things redeeming you are the Rusted Root and the MacLachlan...."

"Yeah, well, who immortalized 'The Twist?'  Or do you remember this time?"

LaCroix listened to the exchange with a great deal of amused interest, one finger over his mouth as he tried not to smile.  "Lovers' quarrel, gentlemen?"

"No, old friends' dispute," Mac replied calmly.  "And I bought a good bit of jazz recently, at least half of it modern.  Quit complaining, Adam."

“True enough, there, although I still say Joe gave you a shopping list from sheer desperation.”

“No, that was Rich,”  Duncan answered.

LaCroix said thoughtfully, “I do not believe I have met either of them.  Are they both of your kind?”

“No, only Rich.”  Methos replied.  He dipped up some soup before asking, “I assume you’ve fed tonight?”

That brought a slow smile that raised Duncan’s hackles.  “Yes, but it was rather... standard fare, I’m afraid.  I don’t suppose...?”

“No, I don’t think so.”  Methos spoke calmly but firmly.  “I have no need of any favors.  If anything, it sounds like Duncan may yet do you one.”

“True enough.  You always did haggle like a true Roman, Adam.  Are you sure you weren’t in the Empire?”

“I passed through a few times, but no, Lucius, I’m not from there.”  Methos went back to eating, ignoring the subtle probe.

Duncan had been trying to sort out the clues and innuendoes, but he was completely lost now.  With one leg the Scot brushed against Methos, trying to strengthen the wordless link they sometimes shared.  What he picked up from his lover worried him.  He felt worry, deep- and quick-running calculations, and a bone-deep wariness of the man sitting with them.  That had been an odd question about feeding, though.  What did food have to do with favors?  And what did it take to make Methos this wary?

An exquisite brunette with violet eyes glided over to check on their table.  Duncan looked up, admiring without lusting.  She was tall, slender and strong, with a face that should have been plain, but wasn't.  LaCroix smiled at her and said, "Janette.  Allow me to introduce an old acquaintance of mine.  This is Adam Pierson, and his friend, Duncan MacLeod.  I've told you of the swordsmen, my dear."

" _Oui_ , LaCroix, you mentioned them once.  I'm pleased to meet you, gentlemen.  There is a more private table in the back if you would prefer?"  She waved a hand toward a small booth to the right of, and just behind, the stage.  "Owner's privilege, I'm afraid.  I like to have a place where I can speak to people... quietly.  Not all discussions should be heard by everyone."

Duncan took the chance LaCroix and his daughter wouldn't understand Gaelic and murmured to Methos, "What's going on?  What are they?"

The other immortal's eyes widened for a second, then narrowed, green-gold shutters over a thousand things furious calculations.  In equally quiet Gaelic, he answered, "Don't say a word until you think about it; this is a bad time to lose any control, Dhonnchaidh.  They drink blood and shun churches.  Yes, they're real."

The Highlander tightened his grip on his drink as pieces dropped forcibly into place.  No wonder LaCroix had complained about the current vampire craze.  On the other hand it must be good camouflage.  But which versions of the stories were real?  Methos said they drank blood, avoided holy ground... or just churches?

 _Well, now I know I trust Methos.  Vampires.  God.  I don’t if I would have believed anyone else who tried to tell me this.  Well, maybe Connor or Aidan.  Maybe._

The four of them moved back to the booth Janette had indicated, with the two vampires carrying the wine, the two immortals carrying their food.  Duncan found himself watching the other two more carefully now.  The control they exerted over their movements spoke of a great deal of strength tightly leashed, almost like watching a professional athlete.  Their skin threw back the light a bit more than it really should, he saw.  And now that he was watching for it, the Scot realized that they only drew breath to talk, apparently.  If they were breathing, it was incredibly slowly.

Methos brushed against his leg as they sat down, reaching for Duncan's feelings to gauge his mood and nerves.  What he caught before the contact faded, as it did at the worst times it seemed, was a calm, calculating observation.  Reassured, the older immortal turned all his attention back to sparring with LaCroix, already contemplating how he was going to get both of them back out with all their blood where it belonged.

Janette openly studied the two of them with the unbending hauteur of a queen in her own realm.  "Do you truly carry swords always, then?"

Reflexively Duncan checked to see who could hear the conversation.  Sitting next to the stage as they were, the booth walls and the placement of the table just back of the speakers allowed them to hear each other while precluding any inadvertent or deliberate spying.  Mentally he gave her points for both tact and discretion.

"It's safer that way."  There was nothing cold or brusque in his words, simply a quiet statement of fact and acceptance of that reality.

LaCroix regarded the darker-skinned immortal thoughtfully.  "Even our kind do not attack each other instinctively, unless it is a matter of territory.  I had not thought you all claimed territories—or do you?"

"Only the fools," Methos replied calmly, sardonic amusement in his eyes and the set of his shoulders.  "It happens.  They usually die soon after.  It's never wise for us to announce where we can be found.  Someone always seems to come looking."

Janette ran one finger down Duncan's arm where he held his wineglass.  "To live forever and still walk in the sun, to still eat and drink—what is it like?"

Duncan gave her a rueful smile.  "Hungry some days.  It means we still have to eat and drink, still worry about sunburn, still work for a living.  And we outlive our mortal friends and lovers as you do."

"Why would we bother with mortals?" LaCroix asked arrogantly.

"You haven't said that you don't," Duncan replied.  He and Janette exchanged sympathetic looks across the table, not a smile, not quite a nod.  Both understood the pain of centuries of that loss, and saw it mirrored in the other's eyes.

LaCroix gestured with one hand to the Highlander, palm up, as if to indicate a point scored in the conversation.  Methos caught the vampire's eye and smiled slightly, proud and possessive all at once.  Better to make it clear now where things stood.  _Not, of course, that they won't smell Duncan on my skin, but why give Lucien any kind of starting point to claim a 'misunderstanding?'  Mac wouldn't appreciate being dinner._

Duncan smiled at her and said, "So what's it like to see a century of nights?  Which stories are true?"

LaCroix rolled his eyes.  "Not, I assure you, the foolishness in that... idiotic movie."  Methos restrained a snicker.  He hadn't heard sarcasm that corrosive since he'd left Aidan in Seacouver.  Well, maybe Erin discussing Watcher policies.  "Nor did that deluded Irishman know what he was talking about.  Summoning rats indeed."

"Ah, but to fly, LaCroix, to pour ourselves across the night sky,"  Janette sighed.

"Not in the form of winged vermin, my dear.  Shape-changing.  As if what we are is not enough to set us aside from mortals already, Stoker had to imitate the penny-dreadfuls and attempt to surpass them."  LaCroix sipped at his wine again, then continued, "I have traveled the Carpathians, taken money from the dead who no longer required it, but I have never bothered to look for the 'blue flame of corpselight' on St. John's Eve.  Nor do I sleep on a bed of dirt like some common peasant."

Duncan grinned and ate some of his soup to cover his amusement.  No Highlander born was ashamed to sleep in the open, wrapped in a kilt and watching the sky.  The man might be a vampire, but he sounded like any aristocrat.

Methos commented, "No, I can't picture you doing that, nor sleeping in a coffin when a bed's so much more comfortable.  But I seem to remember you have an aversion to garlic and holy symbols and blessed water.  Am I misremembering?"

"Most uncomfortable," Janette replied with a delicate shudder.  "Better to speak of the joys of flight, Duncan, of the sweet taste of blood and the thrill of returning to some pimp precisely the pain and fear he has so lately given his women.  Now that is a joy."

Duncan smiled fiercely.  "Aye, it's exactly what they deserve, is it not?  Occasionally it's a pleasure to teach them there are stronger people in the world, who do not care for their money or drugs or guns.  'Tis always such a shock to their poor wee egos."

"You have such a lovely accent when your passions are aroused.  You should use it more often," Janette said admiringly, but she glanced at Methos while she spoke.  From the scent, she rather thought he enjoyed the Scot's accent as well.  Each of the men smelled of the other.

"It's... too distinctive anymore.  These days, any accent is noticed.  Better not to be, I'm afraid."  Duncan replied quietly, forcing himself back out of the remembered cadences.  He still remembered the days when wearing a kilt or speaking Gaelic was a killing offense, remembered the pain of dying for it.  "I think I would trade drinking good whiskey to be able to fly without worrying about the landing."

Methos chuckled at that phrasing.  "Did you give back the t-shirt, too?  Been there, done that, MacLeod."

"Another night, when I am not so busy, you must come by and I will take you aloft for a while.  It will have to be late, so that we do not have to convince the mortals later that they did not see it.  Such a nuisance," she said, shrugging as it to say it was a minor inconvenience but nonetheless irritating.

LaCroix asked casually, as if it were a minor detail, "Is it true that you all sense each other at a distance?  There have been times I would have found that... convenient."

Methos said quietly, "Oh, we can.  But if we can feel them, they can feel us."

Duncan let Methos carry the conversation for a moment, making mental notes to himself on this.  Holy symbols, garlic, flying—those surprised him badly enough.  The casual reference she had made about convincing onlookers told him they commanded something close to Cassandra's Voice.  That he had no intention of asking about.  It would only hurt Methos to think about her.  No point in telling the older immortal that if it came down to Methos or Cassandra, Duncan would take her head in a heartbeat.

He contemplated Janette as openly as she had him, remembering her easy offer to carry him.  She looked too delicate to lift him, but LaCroix had controlled the earlier handshake very carefully and both of them moved as if they were extremely strong indeed.  They had the controlled power of martial artists or....  _They're predators, basically_ , he thought ruefully.  _No wonder Methos started worrying when he recognized LaCroix._

When he glanced back up from his soup, the Scot saw Janette watching him.  "A most personal question I am sure, m'sieur, but you cannot have children?"

"No, we can't.  Ever."  Duncan kept his tone level with an effort.  "Not unless we adopt, which some do, or unless we marry a mortal who's pregnant, or willing to get pregnant elsewhere."

Janette nodded in sympathy.  "Yes, but if you adopt you can raise them from youth.  With us, our children are always full-grown.  A child vampire would be a dreadful thing.  To walk the years forever too young in appearance to conceal oneself among the mortals, trapped in a body too young to match your mind, constantly thought prey for the taking...."  She frowned at the thought.

LaCroix's eyes narrowed, memories of his daughter and maker, Divia, flooding across his mind.  With an effort he controlled a hiss of distaste, sufficiently distracted that he didn't see Methos catch his reaction.

Methos probed carefully at LaCroix, sensing a weak point he might need some year down the road.  "We've had young immortals, too.  So far as I know, Kenny is still alive, and he's been ten years old for eight centuries now."

"Physically," Duncan cut in grimly.  "Mentally, he knows damn well what he wants.  Don't ask who he was trying to figure out how to rape, except the equipment doesn't work, if you take my meaning."

Methos raised an eyebrow in surprise but bored back at the vampire's reactions, sensing LaCroix's discomfort with the subject.  Fair was fair; the Roman had certainly been pressing at him all night.  "I won't ask then.  But there's Kenny, there was the thirteen year old who was a drummer boy for, what, three regiments before he died in the Civil War?  One of my students took a quickening once from an eight-year old girl being burned as a witch."

Janette stared in shock.  "What happened?"

Methos said grimly, "The girl died of the Plague, Janette, and stayed eight years old for another five years.  That she didn't grow taller, the villagers could accept.  But nothing about her changed, nothing matured.  They decided she was a witch.  So my student did the only thing he could—he used an axe to take her head from across the green before she could come back from it and be killed in some more inventive way.  He said the legends later about the lightning storm spoke of the wrath of God at such evil being allowed to flourish in their village.  Staunch stronghold for the Inquisition the place was."

LaCroix hissed at that.  "Yes, those fools.  They should have been stopped long before they were."

"The Inquisition, the Nazi's, Stalin, the Jesuits in Asia, Columbus and his bloody crew in the Caribbean... it's a long list, LaCroix.  That's one of the better things about these last few years.  They don't manage tolerance too much better, but they do at least try in some places."

Mischief sang softly in Janette's voice as she noted, "Oui, France for example has enforced laws allowing lovers of the same sex to walk together.  No one has approved of that in something like two thousand years, oui, LaCroix?"

Methos shrugged.  "I miss the days when no one gave a damn who or what you did as long as you kept any promises you made and paid your taxes on time."

LaCroix nodded.  "Ah, for the days when you could do as you liked and anything was openly for sale or rent."  He smiled viciously, "Some of the slaves in those days were... exquisite.  They aren't trained that way anymore.  And the most glorious blood, too, some of them."

Green-gold eyes narrowed as Methos straightened slightly in his chair.  "Really, LaCroix?  I wouldn't have thought you'd have to buy what you wanted."

Duncan saw the change in his lover, felt fury pour across their link as it resurfaced on the outpour of reaction, but Methos was controlling himself so tightly the Scot couldn't catch anything but trace emotions.  What in hell had the older man just put together that could make him shed his camouflage of being young and ever-so-slightly vulnerable?

LaCroix swiftly reappraised the swordsman across the table.  He had always considered Adam Pierson to be a scholar, more prone to talking his way out of a fight than using a blade.  The man staring at him from the other side of the booth would not have looked out of place commanding the Praetorian Guard.  Ruthless power radiated off him, and the menace in those green eyes that reminded LaCroix uncomfortably that that agile mind knew far too much about the vulnerabilities of vampires.

The vampire decided immediately that although MacLeod was the one whose name had been on the list, he had been wrong to assume Adam didn't know Sulwen.  She had never given a name to the teacher who had rescued her, only said he was older than she.  LaCroix knew the emotions he tasted off Adam:  not outraged lover, but infuriated paterfamilias.  Not even the concern of a brother for a sister's honor, this was the bond between father and child, the anger LaCroix would have felt toward anyone who had injured Nicholas or Janette.  No, this was not going to cause Aidan trouble later when these men asked for an explanation; it was going to cause an immediate problem for LaCroix.

"It was necessary to purchase, Adam.  What I wanted was not for sale, although I tried.  The brothel keeper was a resistor, unfortunately, as was the slave.  I did at least teach her ways to endure what must be accepted.  And she found her nights with me less... unpleasant than with some of her other clients."

Janette watched in surprise as the lazy, sardonic swordsman across the table suddenly shifted to a state reminiscent of a master vampire driven by rage.  She had never seen such an effective disguise cast away so decisively.  And while she knew LaCroix to be ruthless, cold, and calculating, it nonetheless angered her to hear him speak so casually of using others for sex.  One thing to claim your prey and kill them swiftly, to hunt the wicked and kill them as they deserved, but too often slaves and whores had been forced into the life, not chosen it.  _Le Bon Dieu_ knew Janette had not wished to be a whore when she was mortal!

"Really, LaCroix?  That's an interesting way of describing it.  What precisely did you teach her to endure?  And how?"  The sarcasm in Methos' voice bit at LaCroix as sharply as the vampire's earlier words about Stoker had etched acid in the air.  There was an underlying command as well; he meant to have answers.

Duncan stared as the pieces fell into place.  Teaching endurance to a slave with exquisite blood....  What did an immortal's blood taste like to a vampire, that LaCroix would refer to humans as 'standard fare'?  Aidan had come out of her years in Rome able to endure almost any pain in silence.  Without thinking about it, the Scot straightened and shifted very slightly to give his lover a bit more maneuvering room in the booth, the same space he'd have given a fellow soldier on a line of battle.

A very small part of him realized that he'd never seen Methos radiate all the strength and certainty of five thousand years of power.  The Highlander had always preferred lovers with the strength to stand on their own, but the sheer vitality in Methos roused a more powerful attraction than he'd ever felt before.  If the situation had been any different, Duncan would have wanted to drag him into the nearest secluded spot immediately.  This was the man who had survived riding with the Horsemen and still kept part of his soul; who had trained Ramirez; who had been ruthless enough to kill one of his students again and again to make her strong enough to survive.

Duncan reached for Methos' arm and clamped down hard enough to get his attention.  In Gaelic, he said grimly, "Even if he's the one who taught her, she lived through it.  Remember that.  Who's to say that isn't part of what's let her make it this long?  Edana told me once that you killed her easily a hundred times while you were training her.  This is not much different."

Methos turned those fierce eyes on his lover and continued to speak in French, wanting LaCroix to understand exactly how far he had trespassed.  "So what if I killed her repeatedly, MacLeod?  She chose to learn from me.  Aidan accepted whatever I did, first trusting and then knowing that it had some purpose for her own good.  What purpose did your actions serve, Lucius?"  The older immortal's head pivoted back to pin the vampire with that raging gaze.  "Tell me.  I've heard your kind speak of the bouquet that pain and fear adds to the blood.  Was it for her good—or your own pleasure?"

Janette's eyes widened as she watched.  Never had she seen anyone face down LaCroix like this, so completely fearless and with so many centuries of knowledge in his eyes and voice.  Older than LaCroix, older than both of them put together, she suspected.  And she knew somehow that this had not gone as her maker had intended.  He had not known about this aspect of the swordsman, nor would have wanted to draw it to the surface.  It would seem that what had started as an almost abstract discussion was very personal indeed.

LaCroix answered slowly, choosing his words very precisely.  "In the main, Adam?  For my pleasure.  I'll not deny it.  I was barely past fledgling, not yet a century, and her blood was more exquisite than I had ever tasted.  I had never met one of your kind before, nor did I taste such blood again and learn of your Game until three hundred years after.  But in part, it was for her benefit.

"I admire strength.  You know that."  LaCroix stared down green-gold eyes with grey until Methos reluctantly, minutely, nodded.  "She was formidable even in chains.  She told me once that she had only to survive until someone came for her and that she would last until then.  I made sure she could.  With me, at least, she need not fear discovery.  It was necessary that she be able to conceal pain, pretend that any injury or wound was less than it was so that she not be exposed.  That required that Aidan not show how badly anything hurt.  Therefore I taught her silence in, and tolerance of, pain.

"Yes, I enjoyed it.  We are what we are, and I paid well for her undivided nights and services.  You know as well as I that a slave was sold for whatever use one cared to make of her, so long as no permanent damage was done.  She healed by dawn each night I had her, and I made sure she learned to take pleasure from pain as well.  Who's to say that didn't keep her sane as she waited?  It was, at the least, some release for her.  What would you have me say?  It was the way of things in those days."

 _He has always preferred to choose strong people to be his children_ , Janette thought.  _I can believe that he would spend the time and money to strengthen this woman, and if she has lasted this long_ — _almost two thousand years at least_ — _she must be strong indeed.  I could wish he had not done it, but LaCroix is not one to steal.  If her owner was resistor, what else could he do?  But I must meet her one day, she sounds fascinating._

Duncan tightened his grip on Methos' arm slightly.  The older immortal could feel the support radiating off his lover, but the words he heard surprised him.

"Adam.  It's done and over with.  She still refers to LaCroix as a friend—or she did to me at least, when she got back from Toronto," and Duncan threw LaCroix a challenging look, defying him to deny he was the Master of Toronto.  A small inclination of the head was his only answer as the vampire waited to see if the younger immortal could in fact defuse this.

"Leave it in the past, Adam."  Deliberately he caught his lover's eyes and paraphrased Methos' own words from their argument over Kronos and the Horsemen.  "Times were different; people were different.  It doesn't mean he'd necessarily do the same thing today—or that she'd put up with it.  She lived, grew stronger.  It's over."

The subtle relaxing of muscles under his hand told the Highlander that his words were sinking in, with all their layers of meaning.  Turning to LaCroix, the younger immortal said very clearly, "But don't ever try and drop something like that on us again.  You just tried to sabotage something between me and Aidan, knowing that I wouldn't be able to resist asking her about the time period and that it would hurt her to discuss this.  Don't try anything like that again.  I can acquire holy water, and I can sleep on Holy Ground.  Try to use me against my friends again, and I will."

The older vampire had been watching Duncan with surprise and approval.  He had not expected such discernment from one so much younger, and from the interplay between the two swordsmen, MacLeod was much the younger.  One did not normally find such an understanding of the differences in mind-set that a millennia or two could bring, even among those who studied and read the documents of the times.  The unveiled threat, however, brought a hiss from LaCroix's mouth and he leaned over the table to glare at the Scot.

To LaCroix's surprise, however, the young swordsman met his gaze without changing expression or scent in the slightest.  Dark brown eyes met his without flinching.  To the vampire's continued amazement, he didn't bother blustering or repeating the warning, merely sat and watched.

Janette had been ready to blur out of the booth, knowing LaCroix well enough to anticipate his rage at such presumption from a human, even one of the swordsmen.  Seeing the steady calm across the table, though, she sat and watched, trying successfully not to smile at LaCroix's baffled rage which was slowly subsiding to his usual controlled state.

"It is a pity, sir, that you are one of the swordsmen.  Were you mortal, I would be tempted to make you one of my children.  Mine have ever been among the strongest of our kind, in several senses."  LaCroix sat back and picked up his wine glass, projecting an air of composure he did not feel quite yet.  He had rarely been threatened by one not of his own kind and believed it.

Methos had calmed himself again and now hovered between irritation with himself for blowing his cover persona so thoroughly and an almost overwhelming pride at Duncan's handling of LaCroix.  Four hundred years old and he had intimidated a master vampire.  _Gods, what's the man going to be like if he makes it to a thousand?  Other than so skilled in bed as to make an incubus look like an amateur_ , Methos wondered in amusement, knowing damned well that he had always been attracted to charismatic, strong-willed lovers.

Janette met Adam's eyes from across the table, grey-violet watching gold-green.  Both of them carefully did not smile, but they knew exactly what the other was feeling.  She could almost feel MacLeod's mingled amusement and irritation, but couldn't quite tell what had brought them on.  He was a more complex personality than she had initially expected, and more honorable as well.  In fact....

"I think, Duncan, that you must definitely meet my brother Nicholas some time.  You two have a great deal in common and I suspect you would get along very well indeed."

LaCroix turned to his daughter, hearing the pricking claws of mischief in her words.  _This young swordsman and Nicholas would get along far too well.  The last thing my son needs is reinforcement of that unfortunate remnant of nobility._  The glare he gave Janette should have wilted her hair, but she merely smiled sweetly at him, eyes sparkling.

Duncan didn't know quite what she had done, but he recognized the tone and the posture.  Somehow, somewhere, Janette had just jabbed LaCroix under the ribs so to speak.  It reminded him of Rich's mischief, when he managed to one-up his former teacher.  Some of the anger caused by LaCroix's casual assumption that Duncan would be honored to be 'worthy' of becoming a vampire— _LaCroix's child?  As Rich would say, NOT!_—leaked away under her contained laughter.  Through their link he could almost hear Methos chuckle at Janette's adroit barb.

She stood up and extended a hand to Adam while LaCroix was still silently fuming.  "Will you dance with me?  I get so few opportunities with a partner who remembers real dancing, not the current craze for slamming into things, or drinking strange pharmaceuticals and moving to phantasmal drums."

Duncan laughed out loud at that and stood to let his friend out of the booth.  "Go on, Adam.  Janette, save one dance for me, all right?  I promise, I never drop a lady when I dip her."

"Not even off the Eiffel Tower, Mac,"  Methos replied, remembering the reports of Duncan and Amanda doing a tango on the raised railing of the observation platform there to the mingled entertainment and horrified fascination of the other tourists and Amanda's Watcher.  Joe had cursed for days at having missed it.

The older immortal slid out of the booth and took her hand, saying, "It would be a pleasure, Janette."  Methos caught LaCroix's gaze before moving off.  "I'll see you later, I suspect."  The warning against touching Duncan would be implicit, he knew.

Janette signaled a server over to refill the drinks at the booth, but then she directed her attention to dancing.  It was late enough that the band had switched over to slower music, a jazz piece with a languid beat that was incredibly seductive, especially to a vampire.  It mimicked the heartbeat of a sated lover to Janette's ears, and she relaxed into the rhythms immediately.

As she had expected, Adam could indeed dance.  His hands at the small of her back guided her easily and she settled her own hands at the back of his neck.  Something in the tension of his muscles as her hands had moved over the collarbone on their way to the nape had made it clear to her acute senses that that he would not be comfortable with her hands on his shoulders.  But she so enjoyed moving to the music with someone who remembered rhythms and patterns that it was worth indulging a minor idiosyncrasy.

After a minute to get used to his movements and be sure she could match them with minimal attention, Janette asked curiously, "How old is your friend?  I have rarely seen anyone face down my maker so well."

Methos gave her an amused look.  "Just over four hundred.  But he's already coped with some of the worst our kind can throw at him, including older evils than are sitting with him."  The slender immortal knew perfectly well that LaCroix would hear his own name anywhere in the club and promptly listen in.  He signaled a turn with subtle pressure from one hand and hip, and Janette spun into it and then back into his arms exactly on the beat.  She had been right, it was nice to have a partner who remembered how to really dance.

"And you, Adam?  I do not think you are exactly young yourself.  I rather think you are older than my maker by a considerable bit."  Janette widened her eyes at him, deliberately charming and not quite seductive.

"Using those eyes like that is cheating, you realize," he commented mildly.  "But that will do nicely for an approximate age on me."

She smiled at the evasive answer and danced for a few seconds more before responding.  "Your friend hiding such a will behind his looks is cheating, I should say.  It is a pity.  I would enjoy taking you home with me, but I suspect he already has plans.  He is most handsome, I must agree."

Methos gave her a crooked smile, letting her see the laughter in his eyes. "I suspect you're right.  And let's be honest, he's unfairly gorgeous... much like you."

"Ah, if he flirts so well as you, I will have two wonderful dances tonight.  But I must ask.  What is so special about your blood?"

"I should know?  I don't drink the stuff," he replied, a rare grin crossing his face at the lightning change in topic. _Keeping up with Janette requires a hyper-active mind,_ Methos decided. _Fortunately, I have one._

"Ah, but you knew enough to dissuade my maker from a dessert of less 'standard fare'," she pointed out.

"From a few comments I've heard over the years, we seem to be mildly intoxicating to you."

She gave him a wistful gaze and said, "One year, if you would be so kind as to donate even a few drops, I should be most grateful...."

As the song ended, she dropped him a shallow curtsey out of long habit and smiled to see the partial bow it got in return.  But his eyes were laughing as he said softly, "Minx.  Maybe.  Ask me again in a few years."

Duncan had been watching both of them, enjoying the sight of Methos dancing and at ease, and taking a disinterested pleasure in Janette as well.  At another time he would have found her incredibly seductive, but for now all his attention was on his new lover.  _Nice to know some things haven't changed.  I'm still monogamous, even if it is with a man.  Well, relatively monogamous.  I suppose wanting to set up something stable with a man and a woman is sort of the spirit instead of the precise definition...._

LaCroix had been content to sit silent and think and Duncan had sipped his wine and enjoyed the music.  Both Janette and Methos were smiling, though, as they came off the dance floor. She held out a hand to Duncan, saying, "I believe this is your dance?"

 The Scot smiled at her and told his lover, "There's a cold ale for you.  Try to leave my wine for when I get back, all right?"

Methos did chuckle at that.  "All right, Mac.  I'll do that."  He made a mental note that the younger man had forgotten to specify who it was being left for.

Duncan felt cool fingers unfasten the tie in his hair as the vampire wrapped her hands around his neck.  He gave her a mock-indignant glare, asking, "What do you think you're doing?"

"Improving looks that hardly need the help," Janette replied pleasantly.  "Besides, your hair is too lovely to confine so."  What she didn't add was that she knew Adam would enjoy seeing his lover like this, hair down and that graceful body moving on the dance floor.  She could smell the arousal off both of them and, judging from the control they were using not to touch, she suspected that the relationship between them was still new.

"Do not judge my father too harshly," she said quietly as they danced.  "In his own way, he is very good to those he calls his own.  Do you know what I was when he brought me over to the night?"

From the tone of voice, Janette wasn't trying to stir up trouble.  Duncan concentrated on the footwork of the dance for a moment, not sure where this discussion was going.  "No; tonight's the first time I've met any of your kind."

"My husband had sold me to a brothel to pay off his gambling debts," she said fiercely.  "When my new father made me what I am, he made sure my first kill was the pimp who thought he could own me.  That was why I was willing to become what I am, so that no man would ever again touch me against my will.  It has let me protect others put into my position, also."

Duncan thought about that as they danced, beginning to see as a slightly different aspect of LaCroix.  "How old is he?"

"Almost two thousand," Janette said softly.  "He was a general in the Roman army before he died during the eruption of Vesuvius."

"He acts like an officer," Duncan muttered sarcastically as they turned.  Janette automatically swayed closer to him and laughed in delight when he did in fact dip her, then pulled her back up smoothly.  He knew how to do it, too, she noticed.  None of this hoping that your partner was strong enough to bend smoothly; his hand supported her back in just the right spot to ensure a graceful line with no fear of landing on the ground.  _Not,_ she thought, _that a vampire would have such a problem, but it is nice to let him worry with it instead of me._

"You sound like my brother," she smiled.  "You two truly must meet.  You would like him a great deal, I think.  He is too noble for his own good, as noble as the name he uses."

"Oh?  What name?"  Duncan had no real plans to meet another vampire, these two had been plenty.  But associating with Aidan might ensure it, so he might as well ask.

"Nicholas Chevalier it was.  These days he has modernized it somewhat to Nicholas Knight."

Duncan grinned despite himself.  "He wouldn't be a police detective, would he?"

For a moment Janette looked startled as she spun away from him and then back, wrapping one leg up the side of his thigh.  "He would, but how did you know?"

"A Detective Knight called a friend of mine, and Aidan seemed relieved he'd gotten the case.  And your father said one of his sons was a homicide detective."

"Ah, I see.  I was afraid you were a witch or something," Janette teased.

"No, I leave that to some of my friends," Duncan teased back.

"I should like to meet one of your friends," she said seriously.  "This Aidan sounds most fascinating.  It is not everyone who can intrigue my father and survive the experience.  And you two are most loyal to her."

Duncan nodded slowly, thinking that over and trying to decide if Aidan would want to meet one of LaCroix's children.  Then he thought about what she would do if he tried to make a decision for her and mentally flinched.  "I'll tell her so, when I see her."

"The stories you all have not quite told remind me of another woman," Janette continued, hearing him move around the subject as smoothly as he was guiding her around the dance floor.  _What is he leaving out?_ she wondered.  _How pleasant to deal with a civilized, sophisticated mind again._

"I met her in the late 1500s, in Spain.  A rather bruised young woman was fleeing her husband and he had caught up.  I was most surprised to suddenly have help in dealing with him.  Two women rather neatly rendered him senseless while I was checking on the girl.  One of them took the girl off to find shelter, but the other asked for their address first and we went to collect some of her belongings while he was in no shape to object."

Janette smiled in pleasure at the memory.  "Imagine my surprise when she neatly removed the man's funds from his locked box while I collected the girl's clothes.  A most enjoyable night's work that was.  I have always wondered how long it took him to realize he had exactly what he deserved:  nothing."

Duncan grinned listening to the story, but something nagged at the back of his mind as the story ended.  Two women in the sixteenth century who had efficiently dealt with knocking a man out, and then one robbed him while the other sheltered the girl....  Although he had a sneaking suspicion he might regret this later, the Highlander reluctantly asked, "I don't suppose one of them was a redhead and the other a brunette?  Both in men's clothes?"

Janette gave him a startled look then began to smile.  "Yes, as a matter of fact, they were."

"And it was the brunette who helped with the strongbox?  And probably anything else small and valuable in the house?"  He asked it ruefully, a grin starting to twitch at the corners of his own mouth.

"How did you know?  Did you know Amanda and Rebecca, then?"

He dropped her a slight bow as the music drew to a close.  "Oh, yes.  Very well.  That sounds like exactly the kind of mischief Amanda would get into."

"She was one of you?" Janette asked as she dropped him a curtsey, amazed and pleased.

"Is, Janette.  Is one of us," he replied dryly as they walked back to the table.  "And still getting into mischief."

Janette looked at Adam sitting slouched at the table, ostentatiously leaving Mac's wine alone, and smiled.  "You must promise to tell her about the club.  I have so much to tell her!  But I believe this is your dance, Adam."

The older immortal raised one eyebrow, almost daring her to get him to move from his relaxed sprawl.  "Now see here, I only promised you one."

"I didn't say with me," Janette chuckled.  "Go on, dance with your lover and go home.  Another night, you must come back and trade stories with me, but I have neglected my opening night too much already.  Duncan, you will tell Amanda for me, _oui_?"

Methos flinched at the thought of Janette and Amanda on the town together, but stood up readily enough.  _Dancing with Mac_ — _Gods, this could be incendiary.  But fun...._

Duncan gave her a startled look, not having expected this switch in dance partners, but he answered the question quickly enough.  "I promise, Janette, the next time I talk to Amanda I'll tell her.  But she'll probably be in as soon as she hears Nosferateu has reopened.  She likes good jazz."

LaCroix spoke up and said, "I believe I will also be going, gentlemen.  A most memorable evening.  Be so kind as to give Aidan my greeting, if you would."

Methos raised a sardonic eyebrow, but only said, "We'll do that."  After LaCroix had begun to work the crowd again, the older immortal asked, "Dance, Mac?  Or do you want to call it a night, get some sleep?"  He had felt the startlement at the idea of dancing with another man and decided to give his lover a chance to back out gracefully.

Duncan guessed what Methos was doing and gave him a disgusted look.  "Who are you kidding?  Come on, you can't claim to have two left feet, I saw you and Janette."

"Well, in that case," and Methos promptly drained his lover's wine glass.

"Hey!  That was mine!" the Scot yelped.

"Yes, well, you said to leave it until you got back."  Methos shrugged, looking innocent.  "You got back."

Duncan filed that away on his list of 'things to get even for when he least expects it' and asked more quietly, "How did she know we were lovers?  I didn't think we were being that obvious."

"We weren't, Mac," the older man replied.  "They really do have heightened senses.  She undoubtedly smelled me on you from that kiss on the way over."

Duncan switched to Gaelic, realizing now why Methos had used it earlier.  "So I should save any questions until we get home?"

"Definitely," Methos replied in the same tongue.  "Let's dance, all right?  And start thinking about how we tell Joe to keep the other Watchers out of here, why don't you?"

As they moved onto the dance floor, Duncan chuckled.  "Already done.  We just tell him the place is going to be as hazardous as the Raven in Toronto, and let him worry about it.  He'll use our exact phrasing, knowing Joe, and say he got it from 'reliable sources.'  It'll drive the other Watchers nuts."

Methos grinned wickedly at the thought, wrapping his arms around Duncan since the other man didn't seem quite sure how to manage this.  One arm around the waist and one around Duncan's shoulder compensated nicely for the fact that they were almost the same height, and he told his lover, "You're the better dancer.  You lead."

That drew a grin and Duncan mirrored his positioning quite cheerfully.  He knew perfectly well from Methos' offer to leave that his lover expected him to be embarrassed about dancing with another man.  Duncan, however, couldn't see any reason not to do milder, vertical versions of what he planned to be doing more enthusiastically later in bed.  If the one didn't bother him, why should the other?  The only people whose opinions still had him concerned were his student, Rich, and his kinsman, Connor.  The rest of the world could go hang.

Quite deliberately, partly to reassure Methos, partly as revenge for the pose at the lamppost earlier, Duncan set out to seduce Methos on the dance floor.  He didn't do anything too overt, but the way one hand slid along his lover's waist as they moved, the hip pressure that was just a bit stronger than necessary, and the teasing fingers along the nape of the older man's neck began to get a definite reaction.

Methos finally hissed at him in Gaelic, "Highlander, unless you want me to rip your clothes off right here and now...."

"Something wrong?  Definitely time to go, I guess,"  Duncan grinned at him.  "Come on, you can use the walk back to cool off."

That got him a glare out of gold-green eyes, but there was a smile too.  "Come along, MacLeod, time to collect our coats and go."

Janette waved at them from the bar as they left, smiling to let them know they were welcome back whenever they liked.  Duncan grinned at Methos as they headed out, saying, "You know, you only call me MacLeod in that tone of voice when you're really annoyed.  Are you just allergic to my first name?"

"No, I save your first name for when I want you to pay attention to something important," Methos replied.

"Like what?  You've used it maybe half a dozen times in all the time I've known you."

"Yes, and it was always important."

That drew a sidelong smile from the younger man.  "You certainly thought so last night."

"Excuse me?"  Methos tried to sound indignant, but he suspected it wasn't working.

"I think I heard my name more from you that first night I seduced you than I have in the three years I've known you,"  Duncan said quietly.  "Do you have any idea what your voice does to me when you say that?"

That got an interested look from Methos which rapidly softened.  "Oh, about the same thing you do when you purr mine at night.  You have a way of caressing a word with your voice that ought to be registered as a lethal weapon, you know."

Duncan wrapped an arm around his lover's waist for a moment, then moved away again from long years' habit of keeping his sword arm free.  "Your voice is dangerous all the time.  I could listen to you read for hours."

"Oh, good, I'll start acquainting you with modern fiction," Methos promptly returned, but the teasing was affectionate.

"Not tonight, you won't,"  Duncan growled.  He grabbed the lapels of Methos' duster and yanked him in for a quick, heated kiss.  "You planning on dawdling all the way home?"

"No, just on dragging things out when we get there.  You make the most interesting promises when you're desperate and I like breakfast in bed."

"All you had to do was ask," Duncan said indignantly.

"It's more fun this way, Highlander.  Competition can be good.  Very... stimulating," Methos said significantly.

"I'll show you competition.  God, what a night."

Both of them looked at each other, thinking the same thoughts about simple jobs from the Watchers.  Duncan muttered, "The things Joe talks us into.  We need to warn him to stay out of there."

"Not immediately we don't," Methos growled.

Glancing at each other, they chorused, "Tomorrow.  Right."  
 

* * * *  
   
Toronto, Ontario — three weeks later 

Rafferty studied the awning above the club entrance.  The Raven, hmm?  Well, he was definitely in the right place, but this seemed like a complete waste of time.  So MacLeod had a mortal girlfriend who kept making calls up here.  Didn't mean there was an immortal up here.  But if Owain Rhys-Tewdor wanted him to come investigate, Rafferty would do just that.  He was never, ever, going to piss off Enrique's teacher.  Not unless he had a rifle with a good scope and 800 yards distance between them.

At least he ought to blend in fairly well.  Worn blue jeans and a NIN t-shirt looked like they'd fit right in, and his thigh-length leather jacket hid his longsword well enough.  The young Canadian paid his cover charge and grinned at the volume of the music as he walked in.  _Well, well, this might be fun after all,_ he mused.  _What have we here?  From the dancing going on and the clothes being shed, I seem to have wandered in on an amateur night.  You know, I might not mind this job._

The crowd was pretty heavy, though.  Pushing through to the bar took some work and along the way, he felt for an immortal in the area.  Nothing, nada.  Wonderful.  Another damn goose chase.  Oh, well, the scenery was good at least, and the music was killer.  The DJ had an incredible voice, too.  The man should be doing voice-overs for Wes Craven, or maybe for something like the _Evil Dead_ movies.  A connoisseur of horror movies, Rafferty could only listen and admire for a second.

Hell of a variety of people, too, he noticed.  Mostly younger people, twenty-five or so—his apparent age.  But so far, he'd seen punkers in tattoos and safety-pin pierced ears, Seattle grunge wanna-be's in jeans and flannel, a hell of a lot of vampire poseurs in pallor and black, and two blonds clean-cut and wholesome enough to be in a Baptist Youth Group.  Those last two were definitely out of their territory, but the blond girl was cute, Rafferty had to admit.  Maybe he could get something out of this after all, like a date.

Definitely no immortals here, and at ten-thirty this was the busiest time of the night for these folks, judging from the crowd.  Rafferty would stick around until dawn, maybe come back another couple nights to be sure, but he already knew this was a wild goose chase.

Tracy Vetter looked up from talking to her partner, Nick Knight, and glanced around again for Javier Vachon.  He'd said he'd meet them here by ten-thirty with some information on a drug-dealer they wanted.  Ordinarily it would fall to Vice to deal with this, but the dealer had gotten into a war with a rival gang, rumor had it.  The body count so far was at six and rising.  Despite a couple of choice, off-duty comments from the Vice Squad about holding off until they wiped each other out, Homicide had to try and get this cleaned up.  And with a vampire's enhanced hearing, it was amazing some of the information Javier could come up with.  Glancing at the door, she saw Javier finally walk in and smiled and waved at him.

Rafferty studied the blond as he got closer, considering and then discarding ideas on how to get a date.  Definitely attractive, but just goody-goody enough to be wanting to walk on the wild side if she was in here.  As he moved toward the bar the immortal worked on a good pick-up line, only to stumble as a dancer knocked into him.

Taking advantage of the incident, Rafferty put one hand out to 'accidentally' catch himself on the blond's shoulder even as he snapped at the person behind him, "Hey, watch it!"  His brain belatedly registered the odd feeling he was receiving where he touched the blond woman; the young immortal turned to stare at her in surprise.  She felt almost like another immortal, only instead of the steady ringing noise he usually heard she was almost a muted chord.  _Damn, that's a short range on her quickening!  This would be barely worth taking her head.  But any advantage for the Gathering...._

Tracy stared at the young man who still had her shoulder and snapped, "Planning to let go any time tonight?"  Nick turned around in surprise to see what had his partner upset, and blue eyes narrowed suspiciously as he smelled something odd about the young man.

Rafferty snickered at her comment, but she had to be the immortal he had come to find. _One thing for sure, this blond is definitely not the powerful brunette bitch Owain's trying to track.  Well, well, one for me, then._   "Sure, sweetheart.  You planning to come outside and get this over with?"

 Tracy gave him her best 'I'm a homicide detective and you are a potential suspect' glare.  "Sweetheart?  Outside?  With you?  I don't think so.  Why don't you go away and play with someone closer to your mental age?  Check your shoe size for a clue."

Javier heard Tracy's voice and the irritation in it.  When he focused in on her words, he tried hard not to laugh.  Some new idiot apparently; the regulars knew not to hit on her.  _This could be fun...._

Nick, however, had finally pinned down the strange scent even in the crowd, and reached out to back Tracy away from the young man who smelled of oiled steel.  The black-haired boy had to be an immortal.

"Look, I thought I'd try discretion, but that doesn't seem to be working.  Outside.  You, me, two swords, there can be only one—or has no one told you the routine?" Rafferty snapped, ego wounded.

Tracy rolled her eyes in exasperation.  "You idiot, I'm not even in the Game yet.  And this is too public a place to be challenging if I was."

Nick looked up, trying to seek guidance from the heavens in reflex, then remembered that God wasn't really fond of vampires anyway and decided to handle things on his own like usual.  "Look, whoever you are—one more word, and I arrest you for creating a public disturbance.  There are laws on the books about carrying a concealed blade more than four inches long, which could make check-in at the Precinct really entertaining.  Why don't you just go away?"

 Rafferty said in disgust, "Oh, great, you aren't in the Game, but you've told mortals about it?  Wonderful.  Stupid bitch.  Come on, there's an alley just down the street."  He tried to push Tracy toward the door since he still had her shoulder firmly in one hand.  To his great surprise, the world spun around him and he ran out of air.

Vachon looked over at Nick where they both had the boy bent over the bar, one vampire to an arm, and said, "Fancy meeting you here.  Do you have this sense of deja vu?"

Nick grinned at him, remembering the 'vampire lover' the two of them had pinned the same way once before and chuckled.  "Can't imagine why.  So, opinions, Trace?  What do you want us to do with this idiot?"

"Make a wish and pull?" Vachon suggested cheerfully, shoulder-length dark hair swinging around his face and mischief glittering in dark brown eyes.  He pressed down on the boy more firmly as the immortal idiot tried desperately to re-inflate his lungs where the air had been knocked out of him against the bar.

A cold, sarcastic voice from behind them said, "Oh, I don't think so, Javier, but by all means bring him to my office, gentlemen.  Theresa, I assume you're all right?"

Tracy sighed inwardly.  LaCroix never would get used to the idea that she didn't use her full name, and he thought a pre-immortal being named 'warrior' was simply too appropriate.  "I'm fine, LaCroix.  What are we going to do with this idiot?  I can't...."

"Silence.  We'll discuss this away from the crowd, I think."  No one paid any attention to the sight of two men manhandling a third through the nightclub; LaCroix did not encourage anyone to notice the bouncers.  A momentary disturbance was obviously being handled, so they kept right on dancing and encouraging the apprentice strippers on the stage.

Rafferty had his breath back by the time they got into the office, but when he tried to say something, the older man he thought was the DJ backhanded him so swiftly he never saw the hand move.  The young immortal licked blood off his split lip and decided to be quiet for a just a minute longer.  The men behind him had never let go of their hammerlocks and he had no choice but to stand where he was.

Tracy glanced at LaCroix after she closed the door behind them, which made the office much quieter instantly.  "What are we going to do with him?  I can't take his head, because until I die the first time I can't take his quickening.  Damn if I'm going to die now for him!"

Vachon nodded.  "I'll agree with that," he grinned.  "Nice to see you still have a sense of priorities."

"Javier!"  She swatted him, and Nick shook his head, trying not to smile at his partner.

LaCroix stared at the immortal and said calmly, "You will speak only when spoken to, you will answer my questions, and you will stay on the topic I introduce.  Do you understand, child?"

"Now wait a damn second, this is between her and me.  No one else."  He tried to duck away from LaCroix's hand, but the two guys holding him were just too strong.  A second backhand caught the just-healed lip again, and then that hand was holding his jaw firmly.  Rafferty stared into frozen grey eyes and felt himself pale. _This guy's as vicious as Owain, it's in his eyes.  Oh, shit...._

LaCroix ran a finger along Rafferty's lip, and then slowly licked the blood off, without ever looking away from the boy who was growing steadily more pale.  "Do I have your complete attention, child?  Good.  Now then.  You have caused a disturbance in my establishment, attacked one of my customers, and brought immortal business into my territory.  Currently, I am annoyed with you.  Do not make me angry."

LaCroix waited to be sure the boy was listening then went on, "I do not care if you live out the week.  If you do not answer my questions, you will not.  Why are you here?"

Rafferty had briefly considered just letting them kill him.  Although he was beginning to be terrified of how this pervert would do it, almost anything would be better than bucking Owain's orders.  The comment about immortal business, though, told him they knew to take his head and he racked his brain for a way to stay in the Game and still not bring Owain down on his head.  "I landed on her, knew she was one of us, and wanted her head.  Simple."

From behind him, Rafferty heard two hissing voices, and he cried out in pain as the grips on his arms tightened more sharply than he'd thought possible.  Tracy flinched to see both Nick and Vachon flare into vampiric rage, eyes glowing and fangs out.  In the detached surprise of seeing Nick like that, she realized that they had dislocated both of the man's arms.

"Guys?  Could you put his shoulders back?"  She asked it cautiously, knowing already that in this state her friends were more dangerous than the immortal was.

LaCroix replied, "It will make his answers more honest, I think.  That was truth, but not all of the truth.  Interesting, I could swear he's more frightened of something else than me.  How refreshing.  Foolish, but a unique change nonetheless."

 Nick swallowed his rage and popped the immortal's shoulder back into place, enjoying the yelp he made.  Vachon traded arms with him and Nick did the same thing again on the other side, then looked at the man's arm.  "A little enthusiastic with the grip, Vachon?"

Javier studied the obviously broken forearm and shrugged.  "Nah, not really."

"Do you guys always play with your food?  LaCroix, I'm sorry, but can we get on with this?"  Tracy rolled her eyes in exasperation.  "I mean, honestly, Nick, I want answers, but we're really not supposed to get quite this extreme.  And you and I both need to go on duty soon."

LaCroix said calmly, "My dear, if you like, you may leave him here and I will discuss it with you tomorrow.  I assure you, he will leave the Raven alive.  You have my word on it."

Nick traded looks with his maker, then sighed and said, "All right, try not to do too much I don't want to know about, would you?  Come on, Trace, the Captain will kill us if we're late."

Vachon shrugged and said, "Trace, look for Arturo Gordillo; he's based over on 52nd in the abandoned warehouse."  She gave him a surprised glance and the young-looking Spaniard shrugged.  "I thought I'd stick around, play with the snack a bit more.  You know, take lessons from the expert here," and he indicated LaCroix.

Rafferty shuddered under their hands, cursing too many nights spent watching horror movies.  He was beginning to think he was in the middle of Vampire in Brooklyn or something, and even for a player in the Game this was just too weird. _Snack?!  Play with their food?  Jesus, what did Rhys-Tewdor drop me into the middle of?!?_

Tracy shivered and only said, "Call me in the morning, Javier, all right?  LaCroix, thank you."

"You are welcome, my dear.  Nicholas."  He nodded to his son as the two blond police officers left to go on duty. _Having a pre-immortal as a partner has made a refreshing change in my son's attitude.  He's starting to act more like a proper predator again._

LaCroix turned his attention back to the immortal.  "You must be young, I think.  And very foolish.  For the last time, why are you here?"

Rafferty shivered in Vachon's grip, arm still aching where the bones were healing.  "I like the music.  Look, if you know about the Game, you know what's going on."

"She's not yet in the Game," LaCroix said calmly.  "And you are lying to me.  Enough of this."  Using the full compelling Voice of a master vampire, LaCroix asked, "Why are you here?"

"My teacher's teacher sent me," Rafferty heard himself answer.

"Why did this teacher send you?"

"We thought there might be an immortal here."

"Why did you think that?"  LaCroix continued, grey eyes getting more dangerous.

"I don't know.  They didn't tell me."

"What were your orders, then?"

"To come here and spend a few days finding out if there was an immortal or not.  If I found one, I was supposed to call in with a description.  Then Owain would tell me whether to challenge or leave."  Vachon hissed in rage at that answer.

"Why did you attack Theresa, then?"

"The blond girl?  She feels like an immortal, but a weak one.  Owain is looking for a dark-haired woman, very strong.  I figured I could take Theresa's head, get some extra strength for the Gathering."  Raffety had been trying not to answer, but it wasn't working.  It was like this man just asked the questions and boom!  The answer popped out of his mouth like a button being pushed.

"How do you know what this Owain is looking for?"

"I overheard my teacher on the phone with him.  Enrique was talking about a dark-haired bitch named Cynthia.  Said he wanted a chance to convert her to the true faith before Owain took her head."

LaCroix studied the boy thoughtfully, then demanded, "Your teacher's name and age, child."

"Enrique Alba of Cadiz, born in the year of our Lord 1418," came the prompt reply.

"And his teacher's name and age?"

"Owain Rhys-Tewdor, but he's using the name John FitzAlan this decade.  He was born in 878 AD."

"I see.  And your name and age?"  LaCroix had become more and more controlled with each answer.

"Rafferty Conlan.  I'm thirty-four."

"So, Rafferty Conlan, listen well.  You came to the club and saw nothing but the dancers.  There was no immortal here.  There will not be an immortal tomorrow night, nor any other night.  You will stay in your hotel for the next two nights, watching movies on the television because it would be a waste of time to come back.  When your teacher asks, there was nothing here and no one of any interest.  You will not remember this conversation, but you will follow my instructions.  Do you understand?"

Rafferty nodded slowly, face already going a bit blank as he started to lock away his memories.   LaCroix went on, "You will not remember any of the people you talked to tonight.  You will not remember that there is a pre-immortal here.  You will not remember me.  Do you understand?"

"Yes, sir."

"Good.  Sit down and be silent."

"Yes, sir."

When Vachon let him go the boy sleep-walked over to the couch and sat, apparently asleep.  The two vampires looked at each other and the young Spaniard finally asked, "What in the hell is going on, LaCroix?  That sounds like an immortal assassination run.  Do they do that?"

"I don't know, Javier," LaCroix said thoughtfully.  "I have not heard of anything like this in almost a thousand years.  Perhaps I will give Aidan a call and ask about this.  Most interesting.  Close the door behind you."

Vachon knew an order when he heard it and no one crossed LaCroix.  He left, still wondering what the hell was going on and how to find out.

LaCroix studied the boy thoughtfully.  The fool had brought immortal business into vampire territory and needed to learn that lesson before he left.  "Stand up, Rafferty."  When he obeyed, LaCroix purred menacingly, "Look at me.  Look well.  In the dark of night, when you wake screaming from nightmares, mine will be the face you remember, child.  But you will never remember me any other way."

Rafferty stared, seeing glowing green eyes and long fangs, but he'd been ordered to be silent and a scream would break that command.  _Oh, God, they're real.  And I won't remember in the morning.  Oh, God...._

LaCroix smiled to see the man pale to almost vampiric whiteness and tilted the jaw at just the right angle to drink.  _When I've drained the brat properly, he can go.  Say, just before dawn, after he's provided a snack or three...._  
 

  
_Finis 5/98_   


  


* * *

  
_Comments, Commentary, & Notes_   


1.  The jazz club Nosferateu was owned by Kalas in the episodes 'Methos' & both parts of 'Finale.'

2.  Darius' teas were legendary — or is that notorious?

3.  Theology is the study of God; thealogy is the study of Goddess.  Next question?  (There will be a quiz later, please bring sharpened #2 pencils.... WEG)

4.  Anyone with opinions on whether a quickening can haunt an immortal, please write.  I'd love to discuss this one.  From the episodes 'Haunted' & 'Something Wicked', as well as the end of the first movie, I believe a strong case can be made for Aidan's opinion.  But a reasonable dissenting argument would be most welcome.

5.  Rome during the schism would have been an ideal place for vampire, riddled as it was with old families, treacherous politics, and a thoroughly secular attitude toward many things... including the Church herself.

6.  For an alternative view of the fight in the nightclub, see ['Shadow Plays.'](http://archiveofourown.org/works/70390)

7.  'The Giaour' is a poem Byron wrote.  Further deponent sayeth not.  (I could swear one of the vampire anthologies said it was one of the earlier vampire stories, but I don't own a copy and will not take oath on the matter....)

8.  FOR THE RECORD:  LaCroix's opinions are not necessarily mine.  I'm not a two-thousand year old vampire.  (If I were, we'd have a much lower crime-rate in my hometown, folks.)  Therefore, his opinions on literature do not always mesh with mine.  Personally, I liked _The Vampire Lestat_ better than _Interview with the Vampire_.  (Okay, so I will agree that she shouldn't have done any sequels to _The Witching Hour._   As for _Tale of the Body Thief_?  Ech.)  I do strongly recommend _Belinda_ and, if you don't mind anything-goes erotica—and you're reading my stories, so I guess you don't—by all means read _Exit to Eden_ , both written under the pen name Ann Rampling.  All clear?  Good.

9.  Dickens (Charles, that is) wrote _Tale of Two Cities_ , _Great Expectations_ , etc. for publication in the newspapers,  I believe on a weekly basis.  Folks, he got paid to drag things out, end chapters on cliff-hangers....  The idea was to increase the circulation of the newspaper and I suspect it worked.

10\. Why did Methos blush?  Read ['Letters on a Page'](http://archiveofourown.org/works/70362).  It's short, honest.

11\. Denial, denial, denial!!!  Rich Ryan is swimming in a river in Egypt while Marcus Constantine patrols the banks and mutters about familiar scenery.  (Sorry, I'm not paying attention to his death in the novel _Zealot_.)  As for Janette DuCharme?  She's playing Southern belle under a huge beach umbrella, wearing Ray-Bans and SPF1000.  I never saw the episode, therefore I'm ignoring it.

12\. Yes, speaking Gaelic was illegal in both Ireland and Scotland at various times, which is why the language is nearly extinct today.  And yes, at various time different methods were tried to control the Celts in both countries, from the outlawing of the plaids and the pipes in Scotland, to making Catholicism a bar to government office in Ireland.  I'm not going to get into who was at fault; it's over now and they're all dead.  But the movie _Braveheart_ is correct in showing the playing of pipes and traditional songs at a funeral as being a clandestine act of rebellion.

13\. Kenny appeared in the episodes 'The Lamb' and 'Reunion'.  The drummer boy was also in 'The Lamb'.  The eight-year old, however, is my own invention.

14\. The Praetorian Guard was the elite bodyguard for the Caesars.  During the later, decaying days of the empire, they first guarded the throne, then put their own candidates on it, and sometimes removed the occupants as well—as corpses....

15\. If you disagree that Duncan prefers strong lovers, I refer you to Tessa Noel, Anne Lindsey, Amanda Darrieux, Ceirdwyn....  I'm sure the ladies would be happy to debate the matter.  Watch out for the scalpel and the acetylene torch, though.

16\. A resistor, in the series Forever Knight, is someone who is unaffected by Voice.  Kronos was a prime example in the Highlander episodes.

17\. Methos & Janette were dancing to a piece called 'Stella Mare' by Zeus Faber; Duncan & Methos, on the other hand, were dancing to 'Makambo' by Geoffrey Oryema off of _Red Shoe Diaries_.

18\. Last, but definitely not least, Nick & Vachon once pinned a gentleman to a kitchen counter in a wonderfully funny Forever Knight episode called 'My Boyfriend is a Vampire.'  You had to see the talk show in this to believe it - Jerry Springer looked like a doctoral candidate in comparison.  Also the source of the #1 thing not to say to a psychotic murderer with a loaded gun:  "It was just sex!"


End file.
